The Hearts of the Falmer (2)
by robinwitch1
Summary: Chapter 3, "A Dark Road Home," and 4, "The Only Man for the Job." Madina, in Dawnstar, begins to untangle the mystery of the madwoman left to her care by Gjord Glassfist, while Gjord himself is unexpectedly drafted for some special service by a messenger working for parties as yet unknown.


Chapter Three: A Dark Road Home

When Madina got her first close look at the madwoman, after knocking her out with a barrage of spells that would have felled a mammoth, she was shocked.

"You haven't hit her? Not at all? Then how in the name of all the Nine did she get so messed up? She looks as if she'd been pulled out of the business end of a rockslide."

"She did it all herself," the guard standing by the door replied, a bit defensive. "No way to stop her. If we'd gone in there, we _would_ have had to kill her. She was just like a wildcat, smashing things, throwing them around. Look, over against the back wall in there, she tore the doors off that oak cupboard with her bare hands."

"When she realized she couldn't get at us," a second guard added, "she started in on herself. Smashing her head against the floor, banging her arms on anything sticking out, until she lost consciousness. If there had been a knife or anything like that in there, she'd have cut her own throat for sure. Craziest fool I ever saw. No wonder the sellsword left her here."

Madina nodded, grimly.

"Well, if he's ever back, I'll damn sure have a word with him about that. More than a word. I'm certain he knew how violent she was. He might have warned us more clearly. Did she say anything?"

"Most of the time she was just screaming," the guard by the door said. "I thought I caught a few words of the common tongue in it now and again, but nothing I'd care to repeat to a lady, just curses."

"Hmm... can't put her in the jail. She's badly hurt, and besides, she'd brain herself on the bars." Madina thought for a moment. "Might as well keep her under restraint right here. She's cleaned the room out pretty well, I don't think there's anything of value left unbroken, and at a pinch we know the door will hold. And it's close to where I usually am... I think I can drug her enough to keep her asleep and quiet, at least until I can figure out what to do next."

Madina reached down to the unconscious woman and rolled her head gently first to one side, then to the other. The hair over her ears was clotted with blood. Madina grunted and looked up at the guards.

"Why all the damage to her ears? They're in a horrible state."

"She broke a pot, I think, and was slashing at herself with the shards," the nearest guard replied. "Didn't do too much damage, it was a clay pot. The shards aren't sharp. I saw her get frustrated with them and throw them across the room after the first few of them broke."

"Trying to cut off her own ears..." Madina mused. "That seems to make some sort of sense, but I can't put my finger on why."

"It's what _we_ do to them when we kill them," the guard reminded her. "The alchemist pays good money for Falmer ears. She must think of herself as one of them, wanted to spoil things for us. Leave nothing behind if she died."

"Of course." Madina rose to her feet and sighed. "Get some people in there to clean up the mess. We'll have to tie her up on the bed for the time being. I'll be out for an hour, need to pick up a few things... Doubt if she will wake up for a day or so, but keep her tied all the same. And thanks for sticking to your orders not to harm her unless absolutely necessary. Looks as if she did a good enough job of that on her own. It's going to be a tough case to get through successfully, but if we're patient, we might learn some things from her that we didn't know before."

-o-o-o-

It took nearly three days for the woman to awaken, not one. When she finally opened her eyes again, she was gaunt and unresponsive, except for occasional fits of quiet weeping at only she knew what grief. Madina was afraid that she would refuse to eat, but she was willing to take a little food if fed by hand, like a small child. Even so, she lost interest after a few mouthfuls, and if urged to eat more, she would begin to cry again. Instead of hostile, she now seemed to be broken, apathetic, uninterested in what went on around her or what was done to her. At first, Madina suspected that she might simply be waiting for them to lower their guard and provide her with another opportunity to escape or kill herself, but after a week or two it became clear that something basic had shifted in her. Like a zombie, the Jarl had remarked on seeing her, a body without a soul. Madina was reluctant to agree with such a grim diagnosis, but with every day that passed, it seemed more appropriate.

While the woman had been unconscious, Madina had carried out a meticulous examination of her physical features and clothing for any clues as to her condition or history. She appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties, and was in superb physical shape, or at least she had been when all this had started. Her teeth, finger and toe nails, and hair all indicated that she had been fed adequately and suffered from no nutritional deficiencies – certainly, she had not been penned as some starving slave in the darkness. Her nails and hair had been neatly trimmed. Her body bore a number of scars, including a long gash in the left thigh that would probably have caused her to bleed out if she had not received prompt medical care, but the damage was clearly many years in the past. Nearly all the wounds appeared to have been inflicted at roughly the same time, suggesting that she had been in some major accident when she was a child. She had not been whipped or beaten or otherwise physically abused recently, if ever, and she was still a virgin. Her clothing, undergarments, and shoes were of rough material but competent manufacture, and as far as Madina could tell, had been reasonably clean and in good repair before she had been captured. She was carrying no jewellery or coin, but she did have an empty money pouch with her, and Madina suspected the sellsword had stripped her of her valuables before leaving her.

Two weeks passed, with the woman slowly recovering her strength, but not her will. If anything, she became more lethargic. She seemed to understand the common tongue, at least if the speaker spoke clearly and used simple sentences, but she neither talked nor wrote herself. She easily became tired and frequently lay down for naps during the day. When she became sleepy, she would go in search of Madina and lead her to the bedside like a timid child, sitting her down in a chair beside her bed before wrapping herself in a blanket and dozing off for an hour or two. Knowing that Madina was there made her feel more secure, it appeared. She never cried if Madina was present, not any longer.

-o-o-o-

On his way back to the Tower of the Dawn from Windhelm, Erandur dropped into the White Hall, looking for Madina. He found her reading, seated beside the woman as she slept with a faint smile on her face.

"I heard about your guest," Erandur began. "Lion into lamb. The story's reached Windhelm. You've become quite famous."

"Much good that does me, or her," Madina replied, but her tone was not as sour as it had often been before. "And she's not out of the woods yet. I haven't even learned her name. The only real progress has been that she doesn't try to smash things and kill herself when she's left free. But she seems... how could you put it? As if she's lost herself and is still hunting through some dark forest, with no time or attention to spare for anything else."

"I suppose your next move depends on how she reacts when she finds that lost soul, then," Erandur said. "If she ever does."

The woman stirred on the bed, twisting her body and frowning. Madina leaned over her and put her hand on the woman's brow, and her features relaxed again. Erandur was a bit surprised at the tenderness of the gesture. Madina had never been a deliberately hurtful or rude person, but she'd certainly been consistently... prickly, one might say. The difference from her usual self was very noticeable.

Madina turned back from the bed and looked at Erandur for a moment. She must have seen the interest in his face, the recognition of change, but she made no direct response. Instead, she turned her eyes back to the sleeping woman on the bed, almost as if she were speaking to her and not to Erandur.

"She'll find it. It's very dark where she is now, we'll never know how dark, thank the Nine. I saw something like it in the Great War with survivors of some of the worst battles, people who had seen all their friends die horrible deaths around them, but who had been spared, sometimes without a scratch. Survivor guilt, we called it. The feeling that you should be dead, that being alive is a mistake that will be corrected as soon as it's noticed. But for her it's even worse. She wasn't a slave. She must have had friends in that mine. The Falmer have been her whole life, I'm willing to bet. She's been absolutely loyal to them, and in return, they treated her exceptionally well. But then, without warning, it just _ended_. She's died as a Falmer and been reborn a human being. Reborn as one of her enemies. She can't understand what's happened, and she probably still blames herself for the deaths of her friends. Perhaps she even thinks she betrayed them, though from what the sellsword said, she very nearly killed him and saved them all.

"I said she's searching for her self, but really, all she will be able to find is broken pieces and grief. She _will_ come back to the light, but first she has to do something far harder than either of us have ever done, Erandur. She has to become her own creator. It terrifies me to think of how hard that will be for her. But she'll do it."

"I will pray to Lady Mara for her," Erandur said.

"Thank you," Madina replied. "The aid of the divines will strengthen her when she comes into the light again. But right now, she is in a place so deep and dark that even the grace of the Nine cannot reach her. She is the only one who can take the road up and out of that darkness. I know she will walk that road to its end. But it will be very difficult for her at first."

Madina fell silent for a moment, still looking at the sleeping woman. Then she turned to face Erandur.

"I'm being self-indulgent, talking about her on and on. What news do you have? Do we have all the materials to do the passage-opening ritual yet?"

"Well, it was expensive," Erandur began, pulling up a chair and finally sitting down. "And I got some odd looks from the woman in the alchemist's shop when I asked for some of the rarer items. I'm back a bit late because they had to order one or two of them in."

He chuckled. "No one ventured to ask what I was going to be doing with them. I don't think they dared. The chief problem now is figuring out the last few details of the ritual, and I may know someone who can help us with that. The same person I'll be asking about the effects of their burial, as a matter of fact."

"Your mystery authority," Madina said. "Quit being such a damned tease, Erandur. Who is this person?"

Erandur was still being coy. "I don't even know if she can come... we might have to go to her. But you've met her before..."

The conversation was interrupted by one of the guards announcing his presence by politely knocking on the door-frame, the door being open.

"Someone looking for Erandur or Madina at the door, battlemage. Older woman. I don't recognize her. She's wearing a strange sort of armor, never seen that before either, and a hood. Not armed, but there's something odd about her. Can't quite figure out what. Shall I show her in?"

Erandur smiled.

"Speak of the devil. She probably tried to find me in the Tower of the Dawn and then came down here. Yes, please show her in."

He turned to Madina and smiled again.

"Now we can make some progress. It seems the gods are smiling on our efforts, for a change."

-o-o-o-

Chapter Four: The Only Man for the Job

It was crowded in The Winking Skeever that night. Probably meant that two or three trade ships had come in that day, Gjord Glassfist thought to himself. Nothing that concerned him. He'd sold nearly all of the things he'd taken from the Falmer, and it was time to move on again. This part of Skyrim was far too quiet and civilized to hold much for a man of his profession, unless he were belatedly going to join the Imperial Legion as a scout. But it would have taken him twenty years in the Legion to save up the amount of gold he'd pocketed for that last job with the Falmer, so he wouldn't be going anywhere near the recruiting officer in Castle Dour.

He'd heard that there might be some opportunities south of Riften, as an escort or a guard. Nothing to touch what he'd just earned, of course, but it would keep him in the black at least. Or maybe just go back to his family, who lived on a farm near Falkreath, buy up a bit more land and hire some people to farm it for him. With the nest egg he was sitting on now, he'd be able to offer very favorable terms and get some hard-working tenants who could be trusted. Live off rents like a gentleman. Relax; go to the inn every night...

A man paused at the empty chair on the other side of Gjord's small table.

"Anyone sitting here? I've come a long way and had best get off my feet a bit, and this seems to be the only empty seat in the house."

Gjord nodded, without paying too much attention at first, and the man sat down. He was dressed like a monk or a mage, with dusty clothes and a hooded cloak colored a dull brown. They looked at each other for a moment, each waiting for the other to make the first move, and then the man inquired in a polite tone, "Sellsword?"

"That's right," Gjord grunted at his tablemate. "And a good one too. Specialize in getting Falmer out from places they shouldn't be. A whole cave-full of them last time, up near Dawnstar. But I'll do anything honest when I get hungry enough. What's your line?"

"How to describe it..." The man thought for a long moment. "Let's just say I find people and information about people. Whether they're alive or dead, where they are, where they've been, what they know, what they've been doing, and so on. Pure information, no delivering rewards or taking revenge, at least by me. A lot of it concerns legacies or long-lost relatives. Or sometimes dead ancestors, questions of descent. They can be the trickiest of all, if you have to sneak into some tomb to find evidence, and the dead aren't happy you're there."

"I hear you. Hate fighting those damned draugr myself. Like chopping down dead trees. Trees that chop back. Used to have nightmares about it."

"Oh, fire's the trick," the man said, flexing his fingers and chuckling. "Destruction magic, scrolls, enchanted weapons, no matter, something with fire in it's best of all. A thousand years out of the rain, and you burn quite merrily."

"I suppose so. And when it comes down to it, the draugr aren't nearly as persistent and prolific as the bloody Falmer. Where do all of _those_ come from, anyway? I've been in on more raids that I can count now, plus half a dozen one-man shows, just me and the best weapon I could find. But I don't think I've ever seen any Falmer but adult males. No females. And definitely no young ones."

Gjord paused to take a gulp from his tankard, and added "Not that I'd really _like_ to find a warren filled with their young. I hate killing little ones, even when it's something as repulsive as a frostbite spider. On the face of it, it makes no sense at all to wait until something's grown up before you can take it out. But sense or not, that's the way that everyone feels who has any honour at all."

"Instinct's to be respected even if sometimes it doesn't make obvious sense," the man said. "Besides, there is a reason after all when you think about it carefully. It's _much_ harder to make peace with an enemy that's attacked your family as well as you. You can talk to a man who's killed your brother on the battlefield in fair fight, but there's nothing to say to someone who butchered your children. So perhaps it's a blessing we've never found their young. One bitter memory at least that they don't have."

"Not that it makes much difference," Gjord responded. "I can't see how we'll ever have a peace with the Falmer."

The man stood up, and Gjord noticed that he was a good deal older than he had seemed to be at first glance. He shook his head, smiling.

"I can remember when everyone said we'd never have peace with vampires or the dragons, but we've had it with both for years now. There may be a chance one day to add the Falmer to that list. If we're careful, and lucky."

He reached inside his cloak and extracted from it a scrap of parchment.

"Here's the address of someone you can find in Riften who knows a bit more about the Falmer and their young. He used to be in your trade, an old sellsword. He won't talk much with me or with other outsiders, just enough to get us curious, but you might have a chance with him. Professional bonds, and all that."

Gjord gave the man a nasty look.

"And why would I want to do your job for you for free? I'm not even interested in finding Falmer young. I told you I don't like killing things that can't fight back."

"Ah, but you _are_ interested in visiting Dawnstar again some time in the future without being tossed into jail, I expect."

"What?"

"The affair of that madwoman you left them with. She turned out to be a lively one. Did a great deal of damage to part of the Jarl's hall, I understand, and some people there are of the opinion you should be paying for the repairs."

"How do _you_ know about that?" Gjord asked, in a tone that was a mixture of incredulity and irritation.

"How do _you_ win a sword fight? Because that's what you do. It's your job. Knowing things is my job. Gathering information. I wasn't so rude as to ask why, but someone with the money to pay my fee wants the information about the Falmer to be extracted from that old sellsword and taken to Dawnstar. And they suggested you as the obvious person to do it. What _you_ get out of it is a peace offering to smooth things over between you and the Jarl's battlemage, so that she doesn't lock you up and throw away the key for causing her so much trouble. See?"

He gave a broad smile. "Everyone gets what they want, ends up happy, no one hurt or dead. The sort of job I much prefer."

"You're all heart. Well, I don't have much choice, do I?"

"I'm glad we're seeing eye to eye. Oh, and as soon as possible, please. My client doesn't have all year."

He turned to the door and made his way out through the crowd without a backward glance.

Gjord beckoned the waitress over and ordered another mead. He decided to get himself absolutely, stinking drunk, as a sort of silent protest against his life being appropriated like that. And then he'd be off to Riften. _The Falmer's revenge_, he thought to himself glumly. _I knew something would happen to make up for the job going so easy. Opportunities south of Riften, indeed. Bugger the Falmer._


End file.
